Book of Poems, 23 March 2012

[bone_rosary]

Another ink test-drive, this time in the lush perfection of Noodler's Purple Martin.

My god, my god--
     this god turns to you,
     this god seeks you at the sound of its name
          in your mouth,
the name that it forgets
when you are not there to speak it.
God, my god,
     this god is blind without you--
Without shape,
Without voice,
     this god drowns in a sea of forms,
          blind eyes wide in the dark.
God, call to me,
     speak to me of myself,
     know me,
          teach me my omnipotence.
This god shakes when thunder snarls.
This god holds its breath,
     not knowing how to breathe you
          out of itself,
     not knowing how to give you birth.
This demiurge has frozen;
The womb has forgotten its contractions.
Name me--
     I am all for you,
     This voice, these hands, for you
All this coiled majesty
     has waited for you,
     for the need to give it shape,
     for the word to give it purpose.
God, god, oh god,
     this hand will shape you,
     this eye will scry your fate,
     this voice will put your ways in motion
God, dear god, 
     I am heavy with your truth
          like a cloud bearing rain--
     teach me yourself,
          that this god may overflow with you
               and spill your brilliance forth.
Sweet god, my god,
     let me create you
     as you create me--
Let us lay our hands upon each other;
Let us together wind up our thread of Fate.

-------
- Another one specifically for the lord of the Thorns. It has become increasingly obvious to me, over time, how their powerful influence on me causes them to create or uncover new things within me even as I, being their author, create new things for them through the writing of their story. The loop of creation tightens until it becomes uncertain where the creation begins and who is truly creating whom.
- Firefox says that "scry" is not a word. Seriously...??

-- Riss.